


Hogmanay

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [7]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17241431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Robin is invited on a fairytale date.





	Hogmanay

“Corm, could you try to smile a little? This is supposed to be a party.”

Strike scowled at Ilsa. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and you have made it quite clear that you’re here under duress. But I wasn’t going to have you spending New Year’s Eve wallowing.”

Strike took a swig of his beer. “Now why would you think I’d be doing that?”

“Because your younger brother—”

“Half-brother.”

“—half-brother has whisked Robin off on a private jet to celebrate Hogmanay in Edinburgh, by any chance?”

Strike cast her a sideways glance. “And here was Nick telling me tonight would take my mind off it.”

“Well, as it happens, I have something - or rather someone - for just that very purpose. And I’ve seen that you’ve noticed her. Come and be introduced.”

Strike sighed. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, but the thought of finding someone to take home to try to drive the thought of Robin and his _brother_ out of his mind had occurred to him. He supposed he might as well allow the introduction anyway. Ilsa had that unstoppable look in her eye. He followed her across to the knot of people by the Herberts’ back door.

...

It had all started so innocently. Al had just happened to drop in to the office to say hi and see if Strike wanted to go out for a drink over Christmas while he was in the UK. Al spent most of his winter skiing but had popped back for a week to see the rest of the family and, as the only one on the Rokeby side Strike seemed willing to tolerate, had stopped by. Chatting to Robin while Strike was with a client, he had swiftly noticed the lack of wedding ring, and before Robin knew quite what had happened, he’d asked her out.

She hadn’t intended to say yes, but there was something about him suddenly, a twinkle in his eye, something in the shape of his jaw, that drew her to him. She didn’t remember him being so attractive the last time they’d met. So she had agreed. _Why not?_ she found herself thinking. _Not like I have anyone else on the horizon._ She’d given up waiting for any reciprocal interest from Strike and had been on a couple of dates with a colleague of Ilsa’s and a young actor friend of her flatmate’s, but there had been no spark with either of them. Al, though, raised a flicker of interest in her, and she found herself exchanging numbers with him.

She fretted for a couple of days, and then fretted big time when she found out that he wanted her to go to a New Year’s Eve party and she was going to have to miss the annual jaunt to Ilsa and Nick’s. And she was downright horrified to discover that, in an overt and, by Al’s own admission, shameless attempt to impress her, he was borrowing the family jet to take her to Edinburgh to celebrate Hogmanay with high society’s brightest young stars. She had to admit she was intrigued, though. As she confessed to Ilsa over coffee, what girl doesn’t dream of being whisked off on a date on a private jet? She’d probably never get the chance again. So she’d said yes.

So why did she feel guilty? Strike was distant and disinterested around the subject, giving not a hint that he knew or cared that she was going on a date with his brother. To add to Robin’s guilt ( _why? It’s not like Cormoran has ever shown a flicker of interest in me_ ), the only thing she possessed that was smart enough for such an occasion was the green designer dress from Vashti.

Now here she was, sipping champagne on a private jet, with Al lounging on the chair opposite her, laid back and handsome in a slim fitting black dinner suit with just a hint of tartan lining glimpsed occasionally. He’d picked her up in a chauffeur-driven car that had dropped them literally at the door of the jet. All she’d had to do was take Al’s arm for the steps up into the luxury dark leather and wood interior. She was partly exhilarated and partly terrified. _Just try to enjoy it,_ she told herself. _This will never, ever happen to you again._

...

“Cormoran, this is Portia,” Ilsa said in her best introductory voice. “She’s a cousin of one of my colleagues, over visiting for Christmas and the New Year from the States. Portia, this is Cormoran, an old friend from school.”

The tall redhead turned to Strike with a broad smile to shake his hand. She was stunningly beautiful, slim with tumbling curls almost to her waist and a scattering of pale freckles that alongside her slightly upturned nose gave her an almost pixie-ish look that was just attractive enough to avoid being cute. Her deep blue eyes matched her midnight dress.

“Cormoran? That’s unusual,” she said, her voice higher than he’d expected.

Strike gave her his best grin. “Named after a giant in a Cornish folk tale,” he said. “I assume Portia is from The Merchant Of Venice?”

She frowned at him. “No, the car.”

Strike blinked, nonplussed for a moment. “Car?”

“Yeah, you know. Like a Porsche 911.”

Ilsa turned a laugh into a cough and looked away hurriedly as Strike cast a sarcastic eyebrow at her that said “really?”

Strike turned back to Porsche. “Sorry,” he said smoothly. “Over here we pronounce it with one syllable, porsh.”

She giggled. “How funny.”

“Indeed.”

“Another beer, Corm?” Ilsa squeaked, and hurried off to get one before he could reply, shoulders shaking.

...

Robin was dazzled by the restaurant Al took her to, by his attention. They’d been picked up by another car and taken to a tiny, intimate little restaurant with no indication from the street that it even existed. Al had murmured greetings to various people as they were seen to their own private booth, his hand on the small of Robin’s back with just the lightest of touches. His touch felt oddly familiar in a way she couldn’t place, and she was very comfortable with him now, chatting away.

Somehow she’d have expected him to talk about himself, but he asked her about her childhood and her life as one half of a detective agency. He’d enjoyed his brush with their job at the end of the Quine case, and admitted to Robin with a slight blush that he’d been attracted to her then, but hadn’t acted on it because of her engagement ring.

They chatted easily, and Robin relaxed a little. The food was delicious, and Al was good company. There was something about him she found restful. But there was something else, too, something she couldn’t put her finger on.

It was odd, she mused, as he told a story from his childhood, embellishing it to make her laugh - or maybe not, maybe his childhood had been that extravagant - odd that her attraction to him seemed to come and go. One minute he was just Al, a colossally rich guy she barely knew, charming and funny and nice but essentially a stranger. And then he would say or do something that would make her heart skip a beat. She kept losing the thread of what he was saying as she tried to pin it down. It was a look, a frown, the way he would knit his brows briefly in thought or run a hand through his floppy hair when it fell over one eye. She realised she was watching for it, and watching herself watching. _You’re over-thinking this hugely,_ she told herself. _Just relax and enjoy it._

...

Strike drew deeply on his cigarette, enjoying a moment of peace on the Herberts’ patio. He had a mostly full Doom Bar and plenty of cigarettes left. Maybe no one would notice if he just stayed out here for the duration of the evening. He glanced at his watch. Christ, it was only nine o’clock. Three hours until midnight. He sighed.

An image of Robin and Al drifted into his mind unbidden and he scowled and took another swig of beer. Chauffeur-driven cars, a private jet. He’d heard Robin on the phone to Vanessa when she’d thought he was on the phone too. What girl wouldn’t have her head turned by such things? Al was younger than him, much nearer Robin’s age. Rich. Whole. He couldn’t compete. What could he offer? A white wine in the Tottenham?

How had this managed to happen? Robin was out with his brother. That made her totally off limits now, as if she hadn’t been before. He didn’t think he could bear to ever be second choice to Al, little though they knew each other. It would be too weird, even kissing someone who had snogged his brother, let alone...anything else.

_Stop,_ he told himself. _This makes no difference. Nothing was ever going to happen anyway._ But it certainly wasn’t going to now. He had well and truly missed that boat. How had he missed the moment? Where had the window of opportunity been between leaving it a decent amount of time after her divorce came through and losing out to his _brother_?

The patio doors slid open and Strike sighed. Peace and quiet over.

Nick chuckled. “Boy, you are just a barrel of laughs tonight,” he teased, sliding the door closed behind him to keep the warm air and besieged cats inside. Ossie in particular was furious at the quantity of humans in his home and kept trying to escape. Ricky was nowhere to be seen, presumably under the duvet of Nick and Ilsa’s bed, where he remained adamant that he was invisible.

Strike rolled his eyes. “Just wanted a few minutes,” he said apologetically. “Who is that woman Ilsa’s trying to set me up with? She appears to be able to talk without stopping to breathe.”

Nick laughed. “Ils doesn’t actually know her,” he confessed. “Cousin of a colleague, meant to be a lovely girl.”

“Well, she’s certainly a sharer,” Strike said. He ticked off facts on his fingers. “She’s from Connecticut, she has two sisters, she went to two different high schools because she didn’t like the first one. She was a cheerleader. She still likes to make snow angels. I kind of stopped listening after a while, zoned out.”

Nick took a swig of his own beer. “Doesn’t sound exactly your type, chattery,” he said. “But hey, she’s gorgeous. I’m sure you can find a way to shut her up.” He winked.

Strike barked a laugh. “She’s called Porsche,” he said. “The car, not the Shakespeare character.”

Nick snorted. “Ilsa said. Still, mate, you have to admit you’re partial to girls with bonkers names.”

Strike took another gulp of his beer and then lit another cigarette, thinking longingly of the quiet of his flat and the bottle of whisky in his cupboard. Raucous laughter erupted from the kitchen.

Nick shivered. “Too cold out here for me,” he said. “See you back inside?”

Strike nodded, and Nick vanished back into the kitchen. Strike smoked his cigarette and found his gaze drawn to the side gate. He wondered idly if it was open. But his Oyster card was in the pocket of his coat, hung in the hall. _Bugger._

Even his favourite Northern swear word didn’t cheer him up.

...

Robin sat on the closed lid of the loo, wiped her eyes on the handful of tissue she’d grabbed and took deep breaths. Slow, calming breaths.

She wondered how she’d failed to see it before. How it had taken her so long to notice. It wasn’t until she’d asked Al a challenging question, a question about whether it was ever possible to know how famous you were (she’d asked him who the most famous person he’d ever met was, and they were discussing whether Prince Andrew was more or less famous than Paul McCartney). Al had sat back in his seat, hand resting on the table, and put his head a little on one side, his eyebrow slightly raised in amusement, and it had hit her. The half-smile, the quirk of his eyebrow, the curve of his thumb...

_Stop it,_ she admonished herself. _You just have to get through this evening politely and get home._

She straightened herself up. Stood, smoothed down the front of her dress. Flushed the loo. Washed her hands. Pinned a smile on her face and went back to their table.

Al stood as she approached, his face a picture of concern. “Robin, are you okay?” His mid-Atlantic drawl was so unfamiliar in her ears, but there was a deep tone to his voice...

She nodded briskly. “I’m fine,” she said, a little too firmly, sitting back down.

Al sat too. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost, you went pale and practically ran away. Are you sick?”

Robin shook her head. “Honestly, I’m fine,” she said, reaching for her fork.

Al slid his hand across the table and rested it lightly over hers. Unable to stop herself, Robin pulled away. She couldn’t bear him touching her now she knew.

He frowned at her. “Okay, what gives?” he asked gently. “Have I said or done something to make you feel uncomfortable? I’m sorry, Robin.”

Tears filled her eyes again suddenly. He was so sweet. He didn't deserve this. “No, Al,” she said. “You haven’t said or done anything. Not really.”

He raised that eyebrow again. She couldn’t unsee it now. “Not really?”

Robin dropped her gaze to her lap. There was a pause. She’d ruined the evening.

Al tried again. “Look, Robin, have I misjudged this? I think you’re beautiful and amazing, and I thought...” He flushed a little. “I hoped you were attracted to me too. I thought you were. Was I wrong?”

“No, you weren’t wrong,” Robin said earnestly. “It’s just...” She trailed off, blushing herself now.

“Just what? What did I do?”

“It’s not anything you did deliberately. It’s... It’s the way you smile, the way you raise one eyebrow, your hands...”

Al gazed at her, puzzled.

“It just makes me think of... I realised you remind me of...”

The penny dropped. “..Cormoran!”

Robin nodded. “Sorry,” she whispered, looking down again.

Al gazed at her for a moment. “Way to kill the mood,” he said at last.

Robin nodded again. “I’m so sorry, Al,” she said again. “I only just realised. I really thought I was attracted to you or I wouldn’t have said yes to this amazing date.”

There was a pause. Then, against all expectation, Al started laughing. Robin looked up, cautiously hopeful that he wasn’t too upset.

“Well, that’s put me in my place, and killed the passion somewhat,” he said cheerfully. “What next? Do you want to finish dinner and go on to the party, just as friends? Or would you rather go home?”

Robin hesitated a beat, and saw the realisation flash across his face. “Wait,” he said excitedly. “If the things you thought you fancied about me are the things that remind you of my brother...”

Robin groaned and buried her scarlet face in her hands.

“Right,” Al said. He straightened up and looked around, and like magic a waiter appeared. “The bill, please,” Al said quietly. The waiter nodded and vanished again.

Robin looked up, a little alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“We have to get you back to London,” Al said firmly. He looked at his watch, calculating. “We can make it by midnight, I bet you. Can’t have you seeing in the new year with the wrong brother.”

“Al...”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, holding up a hand to stop her words. “I wondered why he was slightly odd about me asking you out. Just assumed he didn’t want his work life and unconventional family mixing. But maybe that’s not what it was at all.” He winked at her.

“Oh, no, Al, I’m sure he doesn’t...”

“Only one way to find out.” Al scribbled his name on the slip of paper put in front of him, dropped a couple of fifty-pound notes on the table - which briefly fascinated Robin, she’d hardly ever seen one - and stood, beckoning to her. Their coats appeared on the arms of another waiter, and then she was following him, bemused and uncertain, back to the front door as he quietly rang for the car. Before she knew what had happened, they were being swept back across town towards the tiny airfield.

...

Ping. “Corm, where the fuck are you?”

Strike sighed. He’d almost made it to the station. He contemplated ignoring Ilsa’s text, but then she’d ring. He’d done well to get out of the front door unnoticed.

“Going home. Got a headache.”

Ping. “Bollocks have you. Get your arse back here. What am I supposed to say to Porsche?”

Strike swiped his Oyster card across the reader. “Anything you like. I’m an antisocial bastard with no manners. Sorry, Ils.”

Ping. “Xx”

...

“You’re coming with me?” Robin stared at Al in shock as he sat down opposite her. The engines whined as the pilot performed the safety checks.

Al quirked that eyebrow again. How had she not seen it before? “What kind of a man would I be if I sent a lady home alone while I went out to party?” he demanded. “I’ll see you to your door. Well, Cormoran’s.” He winked.

“Er, Ilsa and Nick’s, actually,” Robin realised. “He’s at their new year party.”

Al brightened. “Excellent, I like Nick,” he said. “I’d better see how many bottles of champagne this thing carries, can’t turn up empty-handed.”

Robin could have cried again. “You’re so sweet,” she said shakily. “I’ve ruined your evening and you’re being so nice to me.”

“Nonsense!” Al cried, waving her away. “Instead of a boring party with the same old people and the same old things to talk about, I get to be part of a great romance. We will get Cinderella to the ball by midnight!”

Robin giggled. “I don’t think that’s quite how it goes,” she said.

Al laughed too. “Yeah, but this isn’t a pumpkin.” He indicated the interior of the plane, which was taxiing towards the runway now. “And I really hope it’s not being flown by...mice, was it? Or lizards? And I don’t have a tutu or a magic wand.” He grinned. “So let’s just agree that as long as we get you there by midnight, the magic has happened.”

Tears spilled from Robin’s eyes now and she hunted through her bag for a tissue. Bold suddenly, Al slid across to sit next to her and laid an arm over her shoulders. This felt familiar too, but in a good way, comforting.

She leaned her head on his shoulder as she wiped her eyes. “You’re a good man, Al Rokeby,” she told him.

“Yeah, yeah.”

...

Strike let himself into his flat with a sigh of relief. No more texts from Ilsa. He turned his phone off and dumped it on his bedside table. He went for a pee, washed his hands and then grabbed the whisky bottle from the cupboard. He stood it on the small dining table and lined up a glass, an ashtray, his pack of cigarettes and another pack just in case, and sat down to make quite, quite sure he stopped thinking about Robin on her fairytale date with Al.

...

“Robin?? Wha’ you doin’ here?” Ilsa shrieked.

Robin was suddenly very aware of how sober she was, and what a ridiculous idea this was. She vaguely waved the bottle of champagne Al had handed her. He was stood behind her with two more. “Happy new year!” she said. “Um...”

Ilsa squinted at her and then at Al and at the sleek black car hovering on the street behind them. “Wha’s going on?”

“We’ve come to party,” Al said cheerfully, holding up his champagne. “Is my brother here?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, bad plan,” Ilsa said, swaying. “He won’ want to see you two together. You can’t come in. He was so sad, he din’ even stay,” she added in a stage whisper.

Robin stared at her. “Sad?”

Ilsa waved a tipsy arm. “Yeah, you know. ‘Bout you an’ Al. No offence,” she added over Robin’s shoulder.

“None taken,” Al said, grinning. He nudged Robin. “See?” he murmured.

Robin looked from Ilsa to Al and back again, hope blossoming in her heart.

“So let me get this straight,” Al said. “We can’t come in because it’ll make Cormoran sad, but he’s not here?”

Ilsa nodded solemnly. Robin glanced anxiously at her watch. It was already eleven twenty. She’d somehow got caught up in Al’s idea of wanting to get her to Strike by midnight.

Al looked at Ilsa for a moment. “Okay, how about if I come in, and we send Robin and a bottle of champagne to find Cormoran? Would that work?”

Ilsa looked at him for a long minute, cogs turning slowly and drunkenly.

“Genius,” she said eventually. “Genius. C’n tell y’re brothers.”

Robin giggled.

“Right,” Al said. “Robin, you take the car. Keep Paul for as long as you like, but if you, uh, don’t need another lift, could you send him back?”

Robin nodded, blushing a little. “Your poor driver.”

Al winked. “I will tip very, very heavily for tonight,” he promised. “Go.”

Heart fluttering, Robin kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. She turned back to kiss Ilsa. “And I’ll deal with you later, and how long you’ve known about this,” she murmured. “Bye.”

Ilsa swayed back from her. “You goin’? You jus’ got here!”

Robin opened her mouth to explain again, but Al pushed her gently back down the path. “Go,” he said. “You can still make it.” He turned to Ilsa. “I’m staying, if that’s all right?”

Ilsa nodded eagerly. “Got someone f’you to meet,” she said. She dropped her voice to a stage whisper again. “Silly name, but ver’ pretty.”

Al grinned, flashed a smile at Robin, and disappeared into the house. Trembling, Robin hurried back down the path to the waiting car.

...

Strike put his glass down unsteadily, and peered at his door. That sounded like knocking. Weird.

“Cormoran? Are you awake?”

He frowned. Now his door sounded like Robin. Even weirder.

“Cormoran? Am I going to have to go down to the office for the spare key?”

Strike hauled himself up from the dining table with difficulty and made his way carefully, clumsy but deliberate, to the door.

...

Her heart in her throat now, Robin waited and listened to the footsteps getting closer. Had she done the right thing, sending Al’s car and driver straight back to Wandsworth? She’d never get a cab on New Year’s Eve if she needed one. She might end up sleeping on the office sofa.

Strike opened the door and stood and looked at her. Their eyes met, and Robin was sure he’d be able to hear her heartbeat now, it was so loud. Trembling, she waited.

Strike stared at her for a long minute. This definitely looked like Robin, a vision in poison green with tall heels, perfect makeup, hair swept up. She looked like a dream. She must be a dream, because Robin was in Scotland. With Al.

“No,” he said finally, and shut the door.

Nonplussed, Robin stared at it. She leaned close and listened. He was right there on the other side, she could hear him breathing. “Um, Cormoran? Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“No!”

“Er, why not?”

“Y’re not real. I can’t hear you.”

Robin giggled. “I am real. And yes, you can. Let me in.” She glanced at her watch. Five to.

“No, Robin’s in Edinburgh at Hogna... Hogma... new year thing.”

“Cormoran. Open the door.”

Her tone brooked no argument. Strike opened the door again and stood and gazed at her once more. Tall and stunning and wearing That Dress.

“Robin is right here, at your door, asking to come in,” she said, raising the bottle of champagne.

He blinked at her. “Why?”

Robin smiled softly. “Because I want to start the new year as I mean to go on. With you.”

Strike knit his brows together, puzzled. “Where’s Al?”

“Ilsa and Nick’s.”

Strike looked at her for a long moment, and shook his head. “Too confusin’,” he mumbled.

“Okay, let’s make it simple.” Robin stepped into his flat, amused at the way he backed away from her. She closed the door, her gaze sliding to the dining table. “You’re going to pour me a whisky too, and in—” she glanced at her watch “—two minutes it’ll be midnight, and we’re going to raise a glass to the new year. And then I’m going to kiss you. Okay?”

Strike nodded dumbly. That sounded...okay. Very okay.

_Wait._ “Can’t do that,” he said, firmly.

“Why not?”

“Not—” he hiccoughed. “Not competing with Al. Not...” He trailed off.

Robin laid a gentle hand on his arm. He could smell her perfume. Maybe she was real.

“Nothing happened with Al, Cormoran,” she said softly. “Not even a kiss. I realised I wanted to be here, with you, so he brought me home.”

Strike gazed at her, swaying slightly. It was too much for his very fuzzy brain to take in all at once.

“So pour the whisky while I find Big Ben,” Robin instructed, reaching for the TV remote. She slipped her coat off and laid it over the back of a chair, propped the champagne bottle up next to it.

Strike turned obediently back to his kitchenette and reached a glass down from the cupboard. He managed to slosh whisky into it and his own without spilling too much on the table. Robin had tuned the television to the shots of crowds along the banks of the Thames, the excited announcer talking about how it was nearly time.

Strike appeared at her elbow and handed her a glass of whisky. She took it, and slid her arm around his waist. The catch in his breathing made her heart sing.

The countdown on the television had begun. Robin tightened her arm around him, and Strike sighed softly and rested his cheek on the top of her head. Slowly, hesitantly, his arm crept to her waist.

“..six, five, four...”

Robin turned herself just a little so she could rest her cheek against the edge of Strike’s broad chest. His fingers drifted across her hip, his hand splaying around her waist.

“..three, two, one...”

Big Ben began to chime. Robin raised her glass and Strike raised his.

“Happy new year, Cormoran,” she murmured, clinking her glass to his.

“Happy new year, Robin.” They both took a drink.

Robin stepped back a little. She took his glass, and put it and hers on the tiny coffee table. Nervous, she turned back to him.

The shyness in Strike’s eyes melted her heart. He raised a trembling hand to her cheek. Smiling, Robin stepped into his embrace, slid her arms around his neck, reached up and kissed him.

He moaned a little and sank into her, kissing and kissing her, a little clumsy, a little hesitant, tasting of whisky and smoke.

Robin kissed him for a long minute, and then drew back and smiled up at him. “Cormoran Strike, you are gorgeous, and very, very drunk,” she said, gently. “How about we get you into bed and pick this back up in the morning?”

Strike gazed at her dreamily, smiling, and nodded reluctantly. He was vaguely aware that he wished he was more sober for this. Which he would have been had he thought there was the remotest possibility of it happening. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He was sure he’d wake up in the morning and she’d be gone. He was probably already dreaming.

Robin steered him gently towards his bedroom. “Go and get ready for bed while I tidy up,” she said softly. Strike went obediently.

All Robin did, in fact, was put the champagne in the fridge and check that Strike’s last cigarette had gone out. She went hesitantly through to his bedroom. Jumper, trousers and prosthesis lay in a heap by the bed and Strike was under the duvet, awake but drifting. He watched as she approached.

“I thought I might stay, just to sleep,” she said softly. “Is that okay?”

Strike nodded. “Very okay,” he murmured, his eyes drifting closed.

Robin hunted in drawers and grabbed a T-shirt of his, slipping away to the bathroom to change. Blushing, she crept round the bed and slid in the other side.

Strike rolled to her as the mattress dipped, reaching for her and wrapping her in his arms. How many times had she longed for this, to curl up next to his huge frame, wrapped safely up in him? She snuffled closer, feeling him relax, hearing his breathing settle into snores.

Exhausted, she was soon asleep too.

...

Strike awoke in the morning to a feeling of deep contentment, a banging headache and scattered memories, an odd combination. He could smell Robin’s perfume before he opened his eyes, but when he looked around, there was no sign of her.

He half sat up. No Robin. Had he dreamed it? Yet...a puddle of poison green cloth lay next to his jumper and trousers on the floor. He was still wearing his boxers and T-shirt.

He lay back down again. He could remember her arriving. He could remember her telling him nothing happened with Al. He could remember her kissing him. After that, nothing. Had he undressed her? Had they...?

The door squeaked open. Strike’s eyes widened as Robin padded in. She was wearing an old T-shirt of his that wasn’t quite long enough to cover, from his current angle, a pair of very tiny knickers. He pulled his gaze away hurriedly.

She set a steaming mug of tea and a tumbler of champagne on his bedside table and went to fetch her own. Strike took advantage of her absence to haul himself out of bed and hop, using the beams for support, to the tiny bathroom to pee and brush his teeth so that his mouth might stop feeling like something had died in it.

Robin remained tactfully absent until he was back in bed. Then she returned and skirted back round the bed, climbing in next to him and sitting looking at him. Awkward, Strike sat himself back against the pillows. She regarded him fondly, her mascara smudged and her hair tangled and messy. He didn’t think she’d ever looked so beautiful.

Robin raised her glass and he obediently picked his up. “Happy new year,” she said, smiling softly.

Still not sure how to be, Strike raised his glass too and took a tentative sip, grimacing slightly. Robin giggled. “Hair of the dog,” she said.

Strike gazed at her. “So what happened?” he asked finally. “Um, did we...?”

Robin laughed aloud at that. “No,” she said. “You were far too drunk for anything of the sort, I’d have been taking advantage. What do you remember?”

“I was at Nick and Ilsa’s, and miserable. I sneaked out and came back here to get drunk. And then you turned up.”

Robin nodded. “I had to go all the way to Edinburgh to realise I should have been here all along,” she said softly. She reached out and tangled her fingers with his.

“What about Al? I assumed you...fancied him.” Strike kept his gaze carefully on his glass, but his fingers tightened around hers tentatively, hopefully. He glanced up.

Robin had coloured prettily. “So did I,” she confessed. “But I realised halfway through dinner that the only things I was attracted to about him were the things that reminded me of you.”

Strike winced. “Ouch. Poor Al.”

Robin nodded sadly. “And he was so lovely. He flew me home and we went to Ilsa and Nick’s. But you weren’t there, so I came here.”

“And he stayed there?”

“For a bit,” Robin said, frowning, puzzled. “I got a really weird text from Nick. He said to tell you to turn your phone back on, and that Al nicked your Porsche?”

Strike laughed. “He didn’t do so badly out of the evening, then,” he said. Robin shrugged.

“Anyway,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Now you’re sober... Is this okay?”

Strike sighed. “Oh, Robin,” he said softly. “This is very, very okay.” He pulled her close. “I thought I must have dreamed it.”

Robin giggled, snuggling in to him. “Do I often turn up at your door in my Vashti dress in your dreams?”

Strike blushed hard and didn’t say anything. Robin raised her head to look at him, and her eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, I do?” she teased, delighted. “What else do I do?”

Strike coughed a little and took a bigger swig of champagne. It was already tasting less awful. He decided he’d rather the tea, though, and turned to his bedside table to switch drinks.

When he turned back, Robin was still grinning. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll work it out as we go along.” She leaned up and kissed him softly and chastely on the lips.

Strike kissed her back for a long moment, and then drew back and sighed happily. “What a wonderful way to start the new year. Apart from the headache,” he added, wincing.

“I think I might be able to do something about that,” Robin murmured, sliding her hand up under his T-shirt.

Strike’s breath hitched sharply. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, why don’t I try a few things, and see if I stumble upon any of your dream scenarios?” she replied, winking.

“Sounds perfect.”

 

 


End file.
